


That's Not How The Story Goes

by deepestfathoms



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Abuse, Angst and Feels, Anne is a sweetheart, Anne is also Very Motherly, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Babies, Beheading, Bullying, Courtney Bowman!Anne Boleyn, Cute Kids, Death, Domestic Violence, Execution, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Know How Teenage Girls In The 1500s Act, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kings & Queens, Maggie is a Good Friend, Mary is mean, Maternal Instinct, Miscarriage, Missing Persons, Pregnancy, Trauma, You know what happens, i build all this up just to tear it down in the end, i don't know how to write babies or toddlers btw, let them be kids!!!, the maids in waiting are great, you will cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26020720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepestfathoms/pseuds/deepestfathoms
Summary: Queen Anne Boleyn's reign, through the eyes of her maid in waiting.
Relationships: Anne Boleyn & Elizabeth I of England, Anne Boleyn & Maggie (Six), Anne Boleyn/Henry VIII of England
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	That's Not How The Story Goes

**Author's Note:**

> Read Anne as Courtney!Anne, not Millie!Anne

“Since you’re just a maid in waiting, you won’t be expected to do as many duties as a lady in waiting,” Said the guide leading the young blonde teenager down the wide hallway. She was a member of the queen’s Privy Chamber, apparently, yet she got stuck with instruction duties for the new girl. “However, you may sometimes be asked to sleep with the queen. And no, I don’t mean in her bed. You’d be amazed at how many times I’ve been asked that,” She laughed at the stupidity of the younger girls in the court. “The king and queen don’t sleep together. The queen sleeps in her own room and usually there will be a lady or maid in waiting there with her in another bed.”

The new girl nodded, mentally taking notes of all of this. She was doing her best to pay full attention, but the grand tapestries strung on the wall and the shiny polished floor kept distracting her. She doesn’t think she’s ever been in such a beautiful place before.

“You’ll have today to settle in after you meet the queen. Tomorrow will start your duties and classes.” The Lady went on.

“Classes?” The girl echoed.

“Yes,” The Lady said. “You will have music classes. You will also be expected to keep up in reading and writing skills.” She pauses and squints at the girl. “You _can_ read and write, can’t you?”

“Y-yes!” The girl said quickly. “I can!”

“Good.” The Lady looked forward again, then stopped. They both stand in front of a large door. “The queen’s in there.” She said. “Better make a good first impression.”

“I have to go in alone?” The girl squeaked.

The Lady laughed. “Of course. Trust me, it’ll look better on your part.” She patted her head. “I’ll see you around.”

The girl was left alone in the large hallway, quivering slightly from the sudden rush of anxiety. She attempted to gather her nerves as she pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside, but whatever confidence she managed to wrangle up immediately disappeared when she saw the queen sitting in her throne.

She was even more beautiful than in the stories. Unblemished, shining ivory skin, soft from the golden oils she bathes with, and warm hazel eyes that glimmered like jewels in the sunlight streaming in from the windows. Luscious brown locks fell around her face, which is set with a smile as she converses with a younger woman at her side. When they notice the girl awkwardly loitering around by the door, they both turn to look at her. The queen neatly folded her hands over her pregnant belly.

“Hello, little one,” Queen Anne Boleyn said. “Please, come in.”

The girl obeyed without a moment of hesitation. She approached the throne slowly, taking a moment to look around the room before centering her attention back on the queen.

“What’s your name? And how old are you? You look quite young.” Anne said.

“Joan Astley,” The girl said. “I’m- I’m sixteen.” Her ears flame red when she stutters, but the queen doesn’t seem to mind.

“It’s good to meet you, Joan.” Anne said. “I’m sure you’ll do me good by being in my court.” She glanced momentarily at the woman by her side. “Oh, and this is Maggie. She’s my right hand of sorts.”

The woman, Maggie, dipped her head to Joan with a small smile, but didn’t say anything. She’s standing very close to the queen, almost acting as a bodyguard of sorts- they must have been close friends.

“She’ll show you to your new chambers.” Anne said, gently touching Maggie’s hand. “And if you need anything that has to do with any maid or lady in waiting duties, I would go to her.”

Joan nodded.

“Thank you, my lady.”

———

Joan winced as yet another sour note came from the lute she was attempting to play. She saw the music teacher, a strict old woman with hawk-like features named Mildred, whip her head around in her direction and a glare. Joan shrunk up on herself.

“Uh oh,” The girl at Joan’s side whispered. She was slightly older than Joan and smelled like freshly picked apples. “Joan…”

“Can you play any instrument, Jane?” Mildred snapped.

“Um- my name is Joan-”

Mildred narrowed her eyes dangerously. Joan snapped her mouth shut.

“As a maid in waiting, you need to be able to play music for the king and queen,” Mildred went on with her chiding. “You don’t want to upset them, do you?”

“N-no ma’am.” Joan stammered. The other maids in waiting around her stepped away as Mildred stalked towards her. She hunched her shoulders around her neck and looked at the floor, afraid of making eye contact.

“Then why are you being such a disappointment?” Mildred hissed. “You’ve only been here for a week and you’re already proving to be a failure.” Her voice lowers to an agitated mumble, “This is why Lady Boleyn shouldn’t just hire anyone she wants… We get stuck with little street rats and strays.” She narrowed her eyes at Joan, examining every inch of her. “How old are you? Don’t you eat? Maids in waiting and ladies in waiting are supposed to be regal, poised, beautiful. Not…whatever you are.” She looked at the girl with disgust. “Scrawny.”

“She does!” A girl further down the line suddenly blurted. She had a French accent and a mop of curly brown hair on her head. Joan believed her name was Miriam. “She eats fine. As much as anyone.”

“It’s not her fault she’s small!” Another girl piped up, her thick Welsh accent creating a certain edge around her words.

“STOP TALKING RIGHT NOW!” Mildred roared, and silence dropped over the music room. A few girls glanced at Joan apologetically.

“I-” Joan’s voice bubbles up in her throat before she can even stop herself. “I can play the harpsichord.”

Mildred’s eyebrows actually went up in surprise before her eyes narrowed. She sneered.

“Oh really?” She scoffed.

“Yes ma’am.” Joan grits out. Whatever bout of confidence that made her speak up is now gone.

“Show us.” Mildred gestured for the grand harpsichord in the corner. When Joan doesn’t budge, her mouth curves into a twisted smile. “Were you lying to us, Jane?”

“It’s Joan.” Joan growled, although her ‘tough voice’ sounded like a baby lion trying to roar. “And I am not. I _can_ play.”

“Then get your arse over there and show us.”

This time, Joan obliged and marched over to the harpsichord. She sat down at the stool and stared at the smooth, polished keys spread out before her. It was a lot bigger than her grandma’s harpsichord, but she would have to make do. Bigger was better, after all.

With a deep breath, Joan’s fluttering fingers floated over to the keys and pressed gently. The hum that comes out shivers up her arms and up to her brain, filling her ears with the sweet tune. She presses once more on another set of keys and then another and then another until she’s fully playing a song she had created herself and memorized, since she didn’t know how to write music. It was a lovely little song with deep, throbbing notes that rattled her to the core and light, quivering chimes that twirled delicately through the air. After just a few moments of playing she was completely engrossed in what she was doing- the room around her crumbled and fell away until it was just her and the harpsichord.

And then the queen walked in with Maggie to check on how the music class was going. At first, Joan hadn’t noticed the noble pair watching her, as she was way too focused on playing, but then she noticed the flash of the iconic emerald green dress Lady Boleyn usually wore and she fumbled, accidentally slamming her hands on the wrong keys and causing a terrible sound to come from the harpsichord.

A few titters swept through the group of maids in waiting. Mildred sneered and rolled her eyes. Anne tilted her head at the girl at the harpsichord.

“I knew you didn’t-”

“What wonderful playing.”

Mildred snapped her head in the direction of the queen. She blinked several times, like she was trying to process if she heard that correctly.

“My lady-” She said. “Surely you don’t think this worm’s playing is…”

“It was beautiful.” The queen said. She raised an eyebrow at the music teacher. “Don’t you think?”

Mildred is grinding her teeth. “Of course.”

“I’m glad you agree.” Anne smiled before gliding over to where Joan was sitting. Maggie follows along behind her. “You are very talented, Johanna.”

Joan went to correct the queen, but knew better than to do that to Her Majesty. Besides, she liked Johanna better than Jane.

She blushed shyly, dipping her head slightly. “Th-thank you, my lady. Th-that means a lot.”

———

In Joan’s defense, it hadn’t been her idea to spy on the queen while she was in labor. It was Abigail’s. But Abigail was very persuasive and made a very good point about how they needed to know how to deliver a baby for future events, so Joan agreed to sneak out to the medical wing of the castle with two other girls.

“Ew,” The tallest girl named Felicia said softly, curling her nose at the smell wafting from the sick room. “That smells gross.”

“Did you think it would smell good?” Abigail said, laughing slightly. “She’s having a _baby_. I don’t think they usually smell good coming out.”

They crept closer to the door and peeked around the doorframe. Everyone inside seemed way too busy with the laboring queen to notice four maids watching them.

Anne’s face was reddened, soaked in sweat, and pinched with pained concentration. Maggie is at her side, holding her hand and whispering things the maids can’t hear. It doesn’t seem like Anne is listening, though, as she’s much too focused on pushing.

“That looks painful,” Another girl in the group, Guinevere, whispered. “Do we really have to do that when we get older?”

“Not if we don’t want to.” Abigail whispered back. “Hopefully.”

A sudden scream made them all jump. They turned their gaze back to the queen, who was straining and writhing in the bed. Maggie is doing her best to calm her, but she looked even more terrified than Anne.

“Lady Margaret looks like she’s going to break if Her Majesty sneezes wrong.” Abigail commented.

“I think she’s just worried.” Joan said. “Is Lady Anne going to be okay?”

“Of course she is,” Felicia said.

“She’s the queen! Nothing can bring her down!” Abigail added.

Joan nodded and went back to watching. The midwives were yelling something about a head and began to encourage Anne to push again. Before any of them could see what came out, however, the sound of a throat clearing caught their attention.

The four girls whirled around to face the huge, towering figure of the king peering down at them.

Abigail, Felicia, and Guinevere immediately bolt down the hallway back to their chambers, but Joan is frozen in place. It felt like every inch of skin was slowly being peeled off the longer she was inspected. When Henry tilted his head at her, she nearly keeled over and died on the spot. Then, he gave a gruff laugh and nodded down the hall, signaling for Joan to go.

Blinking, the girl bowed swiftly and then scuttled down the hallway.

———

It’s later that night that Joan learned that the queen had given birth to a baby girl. The king was, naturally, disappointed, but seemed to be happier than he was when he saw his first living daughter, although Joan hadn’t been around to know for sure.

She was delivering fresh towels and some tea when she actually got to meet the child. The sick room had been cleaned up, but the smell of birthing fluids and blood still lingered. Maggie was asleep in a chair right next to the bed, but Anne was awake, staring lovingly down at the little bundle in her arms.

“Joan?” She looked up. “Is that you, dear?”

Joan stepped in fully and nodded. She set the silver platter of tea and sugar down on the nightstand, nearly hitting the candle over and made a small ruckus trying to settle everything. Anne laughed softly at her clumsiness.

“I was told I had an audience earlier,” Anne mused. She grinned slightly at the shade of red Joan’s face turned. “It’s quite alright, dear. I probably would have done the same at your age.”

“It was kinda gross.” Joan admitted. “S-Sorry. That was rude.”

“No, you’re right,” Anne laughed again. “It was very gross. Very slimy.”

Joan’s nose curled. “Ew.” She glanced at the baby. “What’s her name?”

“Elizabeth,” Anne said proudly. “My little Elizabeth.” She nuzzled the baby.

“That’s a pretty name.” Joan said. “She looks like you.”

“You think so?”

Joan smiled. “Definitely.”

Anne smiled back. “Wanna hold her?”

Joan’s eyes widened. She opened and closed her mouth for a moment, fingers twitching.

“C-can I?”

“Of course. You’ll be one of the first, you know. That’s a big title.” Anne set Elizabeth into Joan’s shaking arms. “There you go… Just like that.”

Joan stared down at the tiny baby with wide eyes. She tried her best to not move, fearing that Elizabeth may die if she so much as coughed wrong. Elizabeth, however, didn’t get the memo because she began to stir and, a moment later, she opened her honey brown eyes to blink up at Joan.

“Hello,” Joan whispered, and Elizabeth began to cry. She flinched at the piercing noise. “O-oh dear. Oh dear. Wh-what do I do?” She looked at Anne nervously.

“Rock her,” Anne instructed. “It’s alright, dear. Baby’s cry all the time. You aren’t doing anything wrong.”

Joan nodded shakily and began to rock Elizabeth in her arms. It takes a few sways, but the baby’s wails eventually taper off and she’s quiet again, blinking curiously up at Joan.

“She stopped crying!” Joan beamed at Anne.

“Good job,” Anne praised with a soft smile.

“Hi there,” Joan said down to Elizabeth. “My name is Joan. I’m a maid. My friend’s say I kinda look like a sheep. Do you know what a sheep is? No, probably not… You were born a few hours ago.”

Elizabeth seemed to think that was the funniest thing in the world, because she burst out into giggles- or the closest thing a baby her age could get to giggles. She raised her little hands and grabbed onto Joan’s long blonde hair, gleefully stuffing it into her mouth.

“Oh no,” Joan said in dismay. “Ow! L-Lady Anne- ow!- she’s pulling my hair. Ow!”

Anne chuckled and held out her arms, and Joan quickly gave Elizabeth back. She cringed at the baby saliva dripping from her hair.

“Sorry,” Anne said. “You can use one of the towels you brought.”

Joan nodded and began to clean off her hair. In the queen’s arms, she watched as Elizabeth gurgled and then flopped her head over a second later, asleep. She blinked.

“I wish I could get to sleep that easily.” Joan said and Anne laughed.

“You’re a good girl, Joan.” The queen said. “I hope you always remember that.”

———

“John!” Joan jumped up from her spot in the grass. She raced across the garden and leapt into her brother’s arms. He laughed in response, twirling her around.

“I missed you, too,” John said, grinning. He peeked over Joan’s shoulder. “You have a little monster with you.”

Joan scurried back over to the one year old she had left alone with some toys, but kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure John was following her (he was). She crouched down next to Elizabeth and John sat in front of her.

“This is Elizabeth.” Joan said.

“BOO BAH!” The toddler shouted enthusiastically.

“Indeed,” John said, raising his eyebrows. “So, you’re on babysitting duty?”

“Kinda,” Joan said. “Better than cleaning out the toilets, I suppose.”

John snorted. “You got that right.”

His eyes softened as he looked back at Joan. It had been several months since they had seen each other, something they would have never been able to manage when they were younger. The two of them were twins, so they were just naturally inseparable. They were all they had growing up, surviving alone after their parents left.

And then their distant sorta-grandma found them and took them (read as: forced them) into her care when she heard about the trouble they had been causing. She made Joan go into court, while John stayed back and had to do whatever he was pushed into after she was gone.

But he was still her brother. Mossy grey-green eyes and freckles and brown hair done in a ponytail that he insisted on wearing for some reason and all. He was never annoying or judgmental, and rarely ever shouted. When John got angry, it was a cold, deep, dark anger that he held onto for the rest of his life. He once slipped rat poison into a boy’s drink after he had sexually harassed Joan. The boy survived, but only barely.

John was kind of awesome.

“So, what does grandma have you doing now?” Joan asked.

John wrinkled his nose. “Textile.”

“Oh dear.” Joan winced. “Sounds…”

“Boring?” John guessed with a small smile. “It’s way worse than you think. I’m a BOY! Boys don’t SEW!” He crossed his arms with huff. “Boys— I don’t know. Fight? But I don’t want to be a soldier. I kinda want to go back to being a thief.”

Joan jolted and hissed. She looked around frantically for guards, only to find that they weren’t being watched at all. She couldn’t tell if that was relieving or not, as she did have the princess with her.

“John, don’t say stuff like that!” She whisper-yelled. Elizabeth looked up at her in awe. “You know we can’t.”

“I know, I know,” John rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying. It was a lot better back then than it is now. At least for me.”

“Hey, I don’t have it easy, either!” Joan yelped. John gave her a thoughtful smile.

“Oh, you poor thing,” He said. “Living in the palace, eating truffles with the queen, burdened by all your beautiful clothes.”

“You goose.” Joan giggled, playfully punching his arm. “You can borrow anything I have right?”She took off the sparkling silver necklace she was wearing and put it around John’s neck. He looked at it as if he were wondering how much it would go for in the market.

“So pretty,” Joan cooed.

“TEE!!” Elizabeth agreed gleefully.

“Thanks, now I look even more like a woman,” John said. “I’ll fit in perfectly in textile!”

Joan snickered. “It’s the ponytail.”

“No it’s not!” John barked. He reached back and delicately touched his ponytail, as if he had been worried that someone would cut it off behind his back. “It’s cool! You’re just jealous.”

“Oh, _extremely_.”

“Meely,” Elizabeth babbled. John peered down at her.

“So, no son?” He asked.

“Nope,” Joan sighed. “Not yet. Lady Anne and King Henry have been trying very hard, though.”

“I bet that makes sleeping difficult,” John said and then yelped as he was shoved backwards into the wet grass. He floundered his long limbs awkwardly, sending Elizabeth into a loud fit of giggles, before he was able to roll upright. “Oi! Not nice!”

Joan laughed and a handful of grass and dirt was thrown into her face. She spit some of it out, then glowered at her brother, who was grinning up until she flung her own clump of dirt at him.

Elizabeth howled in laughter as the two siblings tussled in the grass, uprooting several patches of soil to throw at each other. Joan made a mental note to apologize to the gardeners later. She was having too much fun to worry about their reaction right now. It’s felt like forever since she’s played like this. Everyone in the castle was so refined and poised, even the other maids; a year in court has made most of them much more mature. There were very few people who wanted to play with her anymore.

As if the thought of nobles had summoned them, Queen Anne, Maggie, and the oldest princess were suddenly looming on the edge of the garden.

“WHAT is going on here?” Mary’s booming voice made the brother and sister jump to attention. She was staring at Joan with the usual disgusted expression she wore when looking at her. Ever since they met, Mary just hated Joan’s guts, no matter how nice Joan tried to be to her.

“We’re s-s-sorry!” Joan stammered. She hated how weak and helpless she got when she stood before Mary, who was only a few years older than she was and close to her height. Something panicked inside of her always told her to get away from the princess.

_This girl will do something horrible someday._

“Yes,” John glanced at her. “We’re very sorry.”

“Who are you?” Mary turned her disgusted sneer to John, but, unlike his sister, he wasn’t phased by the princess’ expression.

“I’m John.” John said. “Joan’s brother.”

“Hm.” Mary studied them both. “I expect nothing less from two urchins.”

“We were just playing!” Joan said. “W-we didn’t mean to cause a scene! We just- we barely see each other anymore and-”

“And now you’re talking back.” Mary said. “You’re sleeping in a cell tonight. I’m sure being alone in the cold will teach you not to act like a fool.” She looked up at Anne hopefully, but the queen merely glided past her and scooped up her daughter. Elizabeth babbled to her mother, still giggling.

“I’m really, really sorry, Lady Anne.” Joan said.

Anne looked at her with a half frown. “It’s alright, dear. You are expected to fix the mess you made, however.” She glanced at the ruined grass and dirt around them.

“Yes, your highness.” Joan dipped her head.

Anne turned to John. “You should get going now, boy.” She said gently.

John nodded and then gently touched Joan’s shoulder, managing a small smile.

“I’ll see you around, alright?”

“Alright,” Joan whispered. “Bye. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Then, a moment later, he’s gone, taking Joan’s necklace and courage with him.

———

The courtyard is lit up from end to end. Firelight blazes in every window in the great hall. Long tables stretch the length of the room, heavy with bread, meat, and jugs of honeyed wine. The room is packed with people dressed in their best: soft suedes and linens trimmed with fur; bright rings, bracelets, and torcs; sparkling silk dresses and beads that glimmer like gemstones. Some of the people sport bruises or fresh bandages. Some sit propped against the stones of the wall, faces grey, nursing stricken limbs, clearly adamant that they’ll be present no matter the severity of their wounds. The people of London are set for a long night of feasting. What are they celebrating exactly? Joan had no idea. It seemed like every week there’s a new jubilee going on.

She never encountered this kind of buzz of activity from when she was a girl. As a child, before she ran off with her brother, she lived in a quiet little town near the ocean. Her father hated it there, but he never left, even during the most aggressive fights. Her mother loved it for reasons Joan never really understood.

There were rumors in the village- there always were. People in the local tavern murmured about her mother and why such a lady would even bother having children. Or, more so, why she kept either one of them alive. They talked about her spouse and the fights that kept the whole neighborhood awake and the man she worked for.

They murmured about her father like he was an artifact bound to his wife. How he shouldn’t be there. How he was going to drown himself in the sea spray one day.

Everyone said the two of them hated their children, but Joan never believed it. Even when they said it to her face, she never really believed it.

Joan remembered so much from when she lived in that musty house they shared. She and her brother slept in a small room, bundled up with blankets and carpet. She would watch her mother at night as she worked on things for a ‘Mister Cromwell’, waiting for her to look over and smile. That’s all Joan ever wanted. A sign that there was hidden kindness inside of the woman.

But she never did look her way.

It only got worse as years went by. Joan realized that her parents seemed to be at their happiest with each other when they were talking about how terrible she and John were. They always agreed when they said how they should have just killed them the moment they were born.

Joan learned really quickly not to cry, at least in public.

At night, she wished for a nice family to come along and adopt her and John and maybe let her get a puppy. She used to think wishes were stars. So cold, so many…so out of reach.

Instead of discovering a situation right out of a storybook, Joan became stronger, wiser, faster, and smarter. No one was going to take care of her, so she had to learn to take care of herself.

“Oh ho ho. Here comes trouble.” A maid in waiting nearby whispered, but it’s not her empty cup she means.

Shouldering her way through the throng came Princess Mary, and the look on her face is not one of friendship.

“You.” She growled, cornering Joan against the wall. “Why are YOU here? Trying to taint the food with your filth?”

Joan ruffled. She really did not want to deal with Mary right now, so she squared her shoulders and met her eyes.

“I could say the same about you.” She struck back.

There’s a swell of whistles and murmurs from the maids in waiting near them. Suddenly, they all look a lot less regal and a lot more like teenagers: curious, mischievous, and itching for drama.

Mary clenched her jaw, clearly not used to being talked back to with such an attitude. She jabbed a finger into Joan’s chest.

“Say that to my face.” She hissed.

“I am saying it to your face,” Joan said. “Or was I saying it to your arse? It’s easy to get the two confused.”

She instantly ducked away from Mary as a loud uproar of “OOOOH”’s exploded from all the maids in waiting. They were all leaning in their seats, eager to see what would happen next. Their poised facade has melted away completely.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” A younger maid yelled. The others glanced at her and then joined in on the prodding.

“Fight! Fight!” Another hollered.

“Rip her earrings out!”

“Bust her pretty little nose!”

“Stab sewing needles in her eyes!!!”

Joan laughed. She had no plans on actually starting a fight with Mary, and her fellow maids in waiting didn’t expect her to, either, but Mary didn’t seem to read the context clues, because she vaulted herself at Joan like a rabid hyena. Joan leapt away, eyes wide. She held her hands up.

“H-hey, woah!” She barely managed to duck under Mary’s swinging fist. She vaulted over the nearby table, scattering goblets and plates full of meat. “L-let’s talk this out!”

Mary didn’t seem to be in any mood to talk anything out. She simply darted around the table (Joan has been expecting her to throw it out of her way) and advanced on Joan. Joan flinched away from a blow that never came.

“Hey! Hey.” A voice said, sharp, yet calming at the same time. Joan opened her eyes to see Maggie standing in between her and Mary. Anne was watching from nearby, her eyes concerned at the mayhem and her hands protectively folded over her pregnant belly, but Henry looked entertained at her side. “That’s enough.”

“But she-!!”

“I know, Mary,” Maggie sighed. “Joan probably did something and made you angry and you lashed out. I’m sure Joan is very infuriating.” She peered at Joan, like she was trying to find something sinister in her soft, lamb-like features.

“Let them fight!” Henry spoke from his spot. “It builds character.”

Maggie wrinkled her nose at him. Anne gave her husband a startled look.

“Mary, take a deep breath; we’ll talk later. Joan, walk with me.” Maggie wrapped an arm around Joan’s shoulder and firmly guided her out of the hall.

“Stick to your books and music lessons, pest.” Mary hissed as they walked out. “This is not your home.”

———

Joan was the talk of history class the next day. Her seat was swarmed by her fellow maids in waiting, all of them chattering eagerly, wanting to know what had happened, despite most of them being present for the fight.

“What did Lady Maggie want to talk to you about?” One girl with friendly amber eyes and red hair asked. Several other maids nodded in agreement to her question and looked at Joan expectantly.

“W-well…” Joan started and the girls around her leaned in. She was nervous at how much attention she was getting, but she wouldn’t deny that she loved it. “She just told me to be nicer and to ‘cut Mary some slack.’”

A handful of girls groaned. One of them, Abigail from the spy heist on the day of Elizabeth’s birth, rolled her eyes.

“She’s the _princess_.” She said. “If anyone needs to be cut some slack, it’s _us_. She’s always pushing us around!”

“If I remember correctly, her mother wasn’t present for most of her life,” One girl pointed out, trying very hard to give Mary the benefit of the doubt.

“Well, neither was mine.” Abigail said. “Doesn’t give her the right to act like a horse’s rear end all the time.”

She then pranced over to the curtains and wrapped them around her like a flowing shawl. Loudly, she warbled, “Ohhh, I’m Mary Tudor and my life is SO HARD! I have to WALK to the KITCHEN EVERYDAY because MY DADDY said my butler COULDN’T CARRY ME!!”

All the girls dissolved into loud giggles. One leapt up onto the table haphazardly and clutched at her heart, joining Abigail in the mockery.

“Do you know how HARD it is to be so PRETTY ALL THE TIME?” She howled dramatically.

Another scrambled over to the teacher’s desk and produced several ink wells before falling to her knees and shaking them in her hands.

“ALL THESE JEWELS!” She cried. “AND NOT ENOUGH PEOPLE TO SWOON OVER ME!!”

Laughter filled the room. A few of the maids were even snorting or had tears streaming from their eyes. One girl had fallen over! But they all hushed up when their history mentor, a plump, older man named Bertram, stepped inside. He peered curiously at the girls, especially the one who scrambled off of one of the desks and the one who frantically put the inkwells away.

“What’s going on in here?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing!” Abigail answered quickly. “We were just playing!”

“Hm.” Bertram looked suspicious, but didn’t dwell on the antics. He just walked up to the front of the room and began the lecture. “Alright, so today we will be covering the history of the Saxons.”

“I have a question,” Abigail then suddenly interjected.

“Already?” Bertram said, ruffled. “I just started.”

“About Princess Mary,” Abigail pressed on anyway. “Why is she like /that/? You know, so bossy. Are all princesses like that?”

“I hope not,” A tan girl at her side said. “I actually kinda like Princess Elizabeth.”

“Yeah, if she turns out to be a brat, I’m never going to take care of her again.” Chimed in another.

“Princess Mary, she-” Bertram floundered. “Her mother wasn’t allowed to see her very often. Henry didn’t want them to be together. She also has very awful menstrual issues, and I assume that would make anyone crabby.”

“Any _girl_ ,” Abigail pointed out as the maids snickered around her.

“Can we learn about THAT?” One of the younger girls yipped. “That sounds interesting! I wanna learn about that!”

“No!” Bertram barked grumpily. “No.” He repeated more calmly. “No, girls, we are going to be learning about the Saxons. Now, most of the pre-Saxon stories would best be described as ‘legends’ or perhaps even ‘fairytales’, however-”

And then he was cut off yet again, but not by one of his pupils. Rather, it was Maggie, who was very pale and trembling in the doorway.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Bertram asked.

“I-it’s the queen,” Maggie said breathlessly. She appeared to be on the verge of some kind of attack. “Sh-she’s in labor!”

Murmurs swelled through the room. The maids in waiting and their teacher alike looked curious, confused, and concerned. A horrible feeling settled in Joan’s stomach.

“But wait,” Bertram said. “Isn’t she only a few months into her pregnancy?”

———

Two days later, after the limp baby’s body had been disposed of, an argument broke out somewhere in the castle. The yelling could be heard echoing down every hallway, and several heads poked out of different rooms to try and see what was happening. Joan was in the sewing room, (very badly) knitting a blanket for the coming winter. Curiously, along with many other maids, she looked out into the hallway and saw two guards dragging Maggie by the arms.

“You BASTARD!” Maggie was screeching. “Don’t you even THINK about doing that to her! It wasn’t her fault!!”

They saw Henry further down the hall, his eyes cold and hard like pieces of obsidian.

“I’ll kill you!!” Maggie roared. “I’ll kill you, I swear to God! DON’T YOU TOUCH HER!!”

Joan had no idea what the woman was screaming about, but she knew it couldn’t have been good.

The guards were taking her in the direction of the torture chamber.

———

Hours later, Maggie is seen again. She’s limping and winces each time she takes a step. Anne ran to her, catching her friend when she collapsed to the floor. Joan would later found out that the soles of her feet had been whipped.

———

“Grandma! John!” Joan called into the house. “It’s Joan!”

She tiredly trudged through the front room. Everything that had gone on recently weighed heavily on her heart and mind. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to curl up next to Joan by the fire and hear him tell funny stories.

But when she checked his room, he wasn’t there. Nor was he in the backyard or the kitchen or living room, but her grandma was, calmly sipping tea like nothing was going on.

“Grandma,” Joan hurried over to her. “Where’s John?”

Her grandma took a long sip of her tea, then turned to her and said, “Gone.”

Joan blinked. “Wh-what?”

Her grandma set the tea cup down and looked at her. “He’s gone, Joan. He left.” She clarified. “He’s been gone for five days.”

Joan couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were suddenly constricted by hot iron bands that tightened and tightened and _tightened_ until she though her chest may burst open. Her grandma peered up at her pale face, not at all concerned by her obvious anxiety rush.

“My, that’s an alarming shade of white.” Her grandma mused.

“Wh-why?” Joan croaked. She’s starting to tremble. Tears prick in her eyes like hot needles. “Wh-where?”

“I don’t know,” Her grandma said helpfully. “I just came home one day and he was gone.”

“And you didn’t go looking for him?!” Joan gaped.

“Why should I? He didn’t mean that much to me. I only took you both in out of common decency.”

Joan stepped back shakily. Her breathing was picking up in the way it usually did when she got scared, but whatever was happening to her right now was much, much worse. It _burned_.

“You- you’re horrible!” She yelled, before wheeling around and racing out of the house.

She cried the entire time she was running to the castle. People glanced at her as she passed by or nearly barreled into them, curious or annoyed or even both.

She burst into the throne room, out of breath and weeping. She staggered forward, past the guards who had jumped to attention and were now pointing their spears at her warily, and toward the king and queen. Her knees buckled halfway there and she fell to the floor, openly sobbing.

“Joan?” Anne said in shock. “What’s going on?” At her side, Henry nodded slowly, although he didn’t look concerned at all, rather intrigued and almost amused.

“M-my brother-” Joan tried to say, but her words came out strangled and watery. She had to stop to get air because her lungs were burning more intensely. “M-my-”

Anne slid from her throne and slowly approached Joan, Maggie trailing behind her. She crouched in front of the trembling girl.

“Joan, it’s alright.” She said gently. “You’re having some sort of anxiety attack. But it’s going to be okay, I promise. Right now, I need you to breathe for me.”

Joan shook her head and wailed, “My brother is missing!!”

Anne frowned. Behind her, Maggie gave Joan a sympathetic look.

“I’m so sorry, Joan.” Anne said.

Joan suddenly grappled onto the queen so fast even Henry twitched a little in surprise. She gripped Anne’s sleeves tightly, not caring about the weapons now trained at her back.

“Release the queen this instant!” One of the guards ordered.

“Y-you have to send a search party!” Joan said, ignoring him. “P-please! H-he has to be found!”

“Joan…” Anne said sadly. “Honey-”

“Please!!” Joan cried. “Please, please, y-you have to look for him! I need him! H-he’s all I have left!”

Anne looked down at the girl clinging to her, then at her husband, and then back at Joan. Then, to the guards, she said, “Send a search party for John Astley at once.”

Joan wailed in relief and then collapsed fully into Anne’s arms. She curled into a tight, shaking ball, weeping uncontrollably. She can feel the queen rub her back comfortingly and Maggie even set a hand on her arm, but everything that’s said after that is a blur as she’s seized by her panic and fades into blackness.

———

A week passed. John doesn’t turn up. The search party stopped looking. Joan doesn’t say anything about her brother.

———

Joan was halfway down the stairs one morning, fetching sand and vinegar to help clean the knight’s armor, when she heard her name being called and turned to see one of the castle couriers at the top of the steps.

“Lady Anne requires you at once.” He said, overdramatically breathless and leaning against the wall. She looked at him with suspicion—most of the court had little respect for her or her family, especially since her brother’s disappearance—but she couldn’t take the risk. She abandoned her errand and headed back toward her lady’s chambers.

At the turn of the corridor, however, she saw a familiar shape blocking the passage ahead—the broad shoulders and sharp, glinting eyes of Princess Mary.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, street rat? She called out, curling her lips. “Going to steal some more pennies for your wastrel family, or are you trying to run away like your brother did?”

Joan’s blood boiled in her veins, but she just clenched her fists and marched on, not wanting to keep her queen waiting. Mary turned on her heels to leer at her.

“My daddy’s letting me go up north to a tournament—have you ever been able to go farther than the vinegar barrel?”

She wrinkled her nose and grins, anticipating Joan’s response.

But Joan merely strode toward her as if squaring up for a fight, causing Mary to raise her own fists ready; then, at the last moment, she dove to the side and swerved nimbly below her outstretched arms, escaping down the corridor before the swearing youth could recover.

She entered into the throne room, where Maggie and Anne are conversing with a woman Joan had never seen before. She almost looks like her, with golden blonde hair and steel grey eyes, but was a bigger and much prettier than she could ever hope to be. As she walked over, the stranger looked at her skeptically.

“Ah, there you are,” Anne said. Joan noticed the small bump curving beneath her dress- the queen was pregnant again. “Joan, this is Jane Seymour, my newest lady in waiting.”

Joan looked at the woman next to her and dipped her head respectively with a small smile. Jane did the same.

“Huh. Your names are even similar.” Anne said, wrinkling her nose in an amused way. “Jane, Joan is going to be your guide around the castle. She’s one of my best maids in waiting.”

Joan’s heart leapt in her chest when she heard that. The queen thought she was one of her best maids in waiting!! That was the greatest thing she’s heard since John disappeared!

Jane peered over at her, raising a brow. “You’re making a maid in waiting escort me?” She asked. “She’s awfully young.” She turned to Joan. “How old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

“I’m eighteen.” Joan said bashfully.

“I see.” Jane said. “Young face.”

“As I said,” Anne redirected them smoothly, “She’s one of my best.”

“Hm.” Jane tipped her head, but didn’t give her opinion again.

“Go on.” Anne waved a hand. Joan bowed to the queen, while Jane merely nodded.

On their way down the main hallway, Joan and Jane pass by the king, and, for a split second, Joan thought she saw Henry and Jane exchange hungry looks.

_What was that about?_

———

It was a cloudy, misty evening and the back courtyard was a whirlwind of maids in waiting. Joan stopped under the shadow of a tall tree, reading a book she snagged from the castle library as girls swirled around her. Some called greetings to one another, tossed rocks, checked their reflections in puddles. A few settled on the low rock fence or benches to study, while others launched races around the garden. One was trying to convince her friends to try a washed out green, snarled vegetable. Jane was even outside, watching everyone with a curious, deep-in-thought expression.

Regardless of what the maids were doing, however, they all stopped and bowed whenever the queen and her right-hand lady in waiting glided through the pack.

“Hello, dear,” Anne said languidly as she passed by.

“My lady!” Joan looked up quickly, then immediately dipped her head into a bow. “H-hello. Hi, Maggie.”

“Good evening,” Maggie said with a small smile.

“Joan,” Anne tutted, staring disapprovingly down at the book in the teenager’s lap. “What have I told you about reading in the dark?”

“It’s an effective use of my time?” Joan guessed with an innocent grin, and she heard Maggie chuckle lightly.

“It will ruin your eyes.” Anne chided gently. “And then we’ll have a blind maid in waiting, and we don’t want that, do we?”

“But it’s not that dark!” Joan whined. “But…you’re right.” She sighed and surrendered the book to the queen, but she pushed it back to her.

“Keep it, dear.” Anne said. “Just get a candle, alright?”

“Alright.” Joan nodded. Her heart fluttered when Anne smiled at her. “What are you doing out here?”

“Punishing Maggie.” Anne grinned at her friend. “Can you believe she doesn’t want me to throw her a grand birthday celebration?” She said to Joan with exaggerated shock. Joan giggled. Maggie, on the other hand, blushed, and the shade of pink looked a little strange on her usually-stoic and calm face.

“It’s not that big of a deal.” Maggie said dismissively. “I’m getting older. Who cares?”

“ _I_ care.” Anne said, reaching down and squeezing one of Maggie’s hands. Acts of affection like this weren’t uncommon for the two of them, but they were usually a lot more subtle. It seemed that the queenly rules Anne had to abide by loosened up later in the evening, when prying eyes grew more sleepy and relaxed. “It’s _important_ to me.”

“I don’t trust you with planning _any_ birthday celebration ever since the goat incident.” Maggie struck back.

Joan blinked. “Goat incident?” She echoed.

“I was turning twelve,” Maggie began while Anne giggled into her hand at her side. “And when I was asked about what I wanted, I said a boat. Because I wanted to sail across the ocean.” She swung her head around and narrowed her eyes at Anne, who was barely able to contain her own amusement. “But _this one_ thought I said _goat_. And so she smuggled me a goat from a neighboring farm. And when I clarified I wanted a _boat_ , she said,” She does an amazing imitation of Anne, “‘Ohh! I was wondering why you wanted to sail across the ocean on a goat!’”

At that, the queen burst into loud howls of laughter. She doubled over, clinging tightly to one of Maggie’s arms, and laughed so hard she snorted, and several people whipped their heads over in shock, as most of them had never seen their mistress like this before. Even Jane was blinking in confusion from where she was standing.

“Oh my,” Anne said breathlessly, wiping her eyes. She stood up straight, still laughing slightly. “That was my greatest achievement.”

“Not becoming queen or giving birth to a living heir?” Maggie said, quirking an eyebrow, and that made Anne dissolve into laughter all over again.

It was such a pleasant experience, Joan had to admit. She couldn’t even begin to fathom how difficult being a queen must be, but it was good to see that they were still capable of being human.

“So, it’s really your birthday?” Joan asked Maggie once Anne had finally settled. “How old will you be?”

Maggie blushed a little. “Tomorrow, yes. And I’ll be twenty-nine.” She paused. “Oh dear. I’m old.”

“Not THAT old.” Joan tried to comfort her and Maggie wrinkled her nose in a happy, appreciative way.

“Maggie’s birthday: the best thing that’s ever happened in the history of the world!” Anne cried.

“You loon.” Maggie giggled. “Don’t let your husband hear that. Or your _daughter_.”

“Well, they can come talk to me if they have a problem.” Anne stated, then bumped Maggie affectionately.

“I don’t have anything for you.” Joan said to Maggie, her shoulder drooping. “For your birthday. I’m sorry.”

Maggie’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “It’s okay!” She assured Joan. “Annie’s being dramatic. I don’t need anything.”

“You deserve everything,” Anne mused lovingly, kissing Maggie’s knuckles. Her friend blushed madly at the act of affection, while Joan had a weird, nagging feeling inside of her that sighed, _“I wish that were me.”_

“Well— maybe— what’s your favorite animal?” Joan asked.

Maggie blinked at the girl, then thought for a moment before saying, “Ferrets. I like ferrets.”

Joan nodded and began searching the tree she was sitting under. As she did so, she heard Anne say, “Do you even know what a ferret looks like, Maggie?”

“Yes, you jellyfish.” Maggie said back. “We’ve both seen one. You called it a ‘furry snake’ before.”

Anne tittered. “Well, it is.” She looked back at Joan, who was snapping off a thick branch from the tree. “What _are_ you doing?”

Joan grinned at her. “You’ll see.” She sat back down in the grass, and she’s surprised to see that Anne and Maggie did the same—especially Anne. They both ogled at her as she took a hidden knife out of her boot and began slicing away at the wood.

“Oh my,” Anne said in an awestruck voice. “Look at how fast you can do that.”

“I’ve, umm, practiced a lot.” Joan said with a shrug, trying not to show off even though she desperately wanted to. “I had a lot of time on my hands when I was little.”

“Is nobody going to say anything about the knife-in-the-boot thing?” Maggie commented.

“Hush, my darling.” Anne shushed her. “Or I’ll kiss your hand again.”

Maggie narrowed her eyes at Anne and gave her a playful nudge. She’s nudged back, and that apparently sparks some kind of memory, because she began to tell Joan a story about when they were little and she, Anne, and her older brother, Thomas, played in this huge mud puddle after a storm and pretended to be ancient swamp dragons. Reciting the tale made Anne beam and smile brightly- it was so refreshing to see her so, well, human.

Eventually, the branch in Joan’s hands began to form into more of a distinct shape, like an actual creature was being born right out of the wood. She whittled the tiny ears, smoothed the long, winding body, and dug out little tufts of fur along the head.

“I’ve never made a ferret before,” She said apologetically after setting the carving in Maggie’s hands.

“No, no,” Maggie said, turning the ferret over and feeling the expanse of its wooden body. “I love it. Thank you, Joan. This is wonderful.”

“Th-thank you,” Joan said, blushing shyly. “A-and you’re welcome! I’m glad you like it.”

Anne curiously peered at the little carving. “Could you make me one of those?” She asked Joan. “Not right now, of course. Whenever you get the chance. I want a sheep.”

Joan’s heart leapt, doing gleeful somersaults in her chest. She stammered on her words for a moment, then sputtered out, “Y-yes! Absolutely!”

Anne smiled. “Thank you, Joan.”

A warm feeling bubbled up inside of Joan. It felt amazing to have friends to give her gifts to again.

Friends.

She didn’t know if the queen and noble lady in waiting could possibly ever see her as such, but she saw them in that way. And she loved it.

———

“Henry, dear. Please calm down.”

“How am I supposed to calm down? Another male heir is /dead/.”

“It’s not my fault! I didn’t want my baby to die!”

“It came out of you, did it not?”

“If I remember correctly, you helped in the process of getting me pregnant in the first place.”

Voices. Voices were echoing down the hallway. One was absorbed with worry and deep anger, while the other radiated resentment and hatred. Joan froze.

“It’s going to be okay. We can try again.”

“And have another die?”

“You don’t know if that’ll happen. It didn’t with Elizabeth.”

“She’s a _female_. I need a _male heir_.”

“I know, my love. I know.”

Joan set the basket of clothes she was carrying on the floor and crept closer to the source of the voices. They were coming from inside the king’s chambers, slipping through the cracked open door like hissing whispers whisking around a glacier.

“Please stop pacing. It makes me want to hit you.”

“Try anything like that and I’ll have all your teeth pulled out.”

A slight pause.

“Henry. I was just joking.”

“Right. Me too.”

Joan peeked in through the small crack in the door and saw the king and queen standing inside. Henry had his arms crossed over his chest with a hard look in his eyes, while Anne looked gentle, but nervous and angry at the same time.

Something very wrong was going on. Something very wrong was _going to happen._

Joan remembered the week before. Anne had gone into labor despite only being three months into her pregnancy. It was a quick, but painful birth, and what came out was a bloody, disfigured, barely-recognizable baby boy.

Henry had been furious. Anne was distraught, but had looked more tired and used to the miscarriages than anything. She requested to be alone with Elizabeth and Maggie for the rest of the day.

Something bad was going to happen. But Joan could stop it.

“Maybe something is wrong.”

“Wrong with what?”

“You.”

“Me?!”

“Catherine was the same way. She had miscarriage after miscarriage after miscarriage. Maybe you’re just like her. Oh, I should have known…”

“Don’t relate me to her! She is gone, Henry. She’s _dead_. _I_ am your wife. And you will _not_ speak to me like that.”

A terrible, rumbling growl that would be more befitting of a wild animal came erupting out of Henry’s throat. Anne immediately took a step back, fear flashing in her eyes before she stamped it down to the best of her ability. But fear was consuming Joan from where she watched, and her mind kept screaming, _“Danger! Danger!”_ on loop.

“You are nothing but a witch,” Henry spat. “That’s why our children have died. You did something to them, you temp-”

 _“Danger! Danger!”_ Joan’s mind wailed as something seemed to snap inside of the king.

Henry’s beard parted enough to show a black pit of a mouth that was yawning downwards into an elongated, upside-down ‘D’ shape that wobbled and distorted in the dim, flickering candlelight as he clenched ham-sized fists and howled so loud that it could be felt vibrating to the very soul.

“YOU LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU, SLUT!!”

Joan is rushing forward without even really realizing it. Liquid adrenaline poured through every vein, urging her to get caught in the crossfire and help her queen.

But then the entire left side of her face exploded into bright, colorful bursts of pain as a fist that seemed to be the size and solidity of a small boulder came swinging around towards her, and her whole body popped backwards and spiraled down until she was sprawled on the floor.

There was silence, aside from her weak moans of people.

At least they stopped fighting.

“Joan!” Anne spoke first, rushing down to her young maid’s side.

Above her, Henry was peering at his hand curiously. He hadn’t been expecting a maid in waiting to come in and take the hit that was meant for his wife.

“I’m impressed.” Henry rumbled, but Anne didn’t seem to care. She was holding Joan’s head in her hands, looking very frightened. When her fingers brushed a swelling area on her face, the girl shuddered in pain.

“Get the doctor!” Anne cried to her husband, to the guards who must have been nearby, to anyone, and her voice sounded very far away in Joan’s ears.

Joan mumbled something incoherent. Her head hurts so badly, but felt a little better when Anne was touching it. She leaned into the queen’s hands.

“Joan, it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be just fine.” Anne said to her. “I promise, honey. You’re going to be okay.”

Joan could only reply with a weak moan. The world was pulling away as the pain shoved itself back in.

“You’ll be okay, Joan, you hear me?” Anne was not shouting. “Don’t you pass out on me! Joan, your queen is giving you an order! JOAN!!”

———

Joan now knew where Mary got her vileness from. Her father has done horrible things, and he’ll do worse someday.

———

“Mama,” Elizabeth babbled, waddling towards Anne with her arms stretched out. Anne chuckled and scooped the three-year-old up.

“Tired of walking already?” Anne asked her. Joan looked up from the piece of wood she was carving away to smile at them. “Oh well. You’ll get the hang of it soon.”

“Mama,” Elizabeth merely repeated, flinging her short arms around her mother’s neck and nuzzling her nose against her collarbone.

“Oi!” Anne yelped. “I’m ticklish, you little imp!”

“Oi!” Elizabeth echoed gleefully, then burst into a fit of giggles.

“Aaaand… Done!” Joan declared loudly. She jumped to her feet, proudly holding up a wooden sheep. “Here you are, my lady.”

Anne adjusted Elizabeth onto her hip so she could hold her with one arm and took the carving with her free hand. She gazed at it in wonder, smiling brightly.

“It’s beautiful, Joan.” She said. “Thank you. I love it!”

Joan couldn’t help the little happy dance she did. Anne laughed at the shuffle of her feet, then set the carving down on her nightstand, tapping its nose gently. “You will stay there, little one.”

And then, in a split second, her grin is gone.

“My la-”

“Shh…” Anne commanded, raising one finger. She crept over to the door and listened for a moment, then darted across the room so fast she nearly dropped Elizabeth. She grabbed Joan by the wrist, shoved her daughter into her arms, then flung open her wardrobe.

“L-Lady Anne?” Joan stammered. She’s never seen the queen look so scared before.

“Joan, listen to me very carefully, alright?” Anne said softly. “Stay in here with Elizabeth. Keep her calm. And stay quiet. Do not come out.”

“Wh-what?” Joan squeaked. She could hear the clanking of metal and scraping of steel blades in the hallway.

“Please, just listen to me.” Anne pleaded, gripping her forearms. She looked down at Elizabeth, who was fussing slightly, and cupped her cheeks. “Hey, hey,” She whispered. “Elizabeth, my sweet little princess, let’s play a game, okay?”

Elizabeth perked up and nodded her head eagerly.

“We’re gonna play hide-and-seek!” Anne said with heavy enthusiasm in her voice. “Mummy is going to go hide while you and Joey will count to…one hundred! That’s a big number, I know, but you’re a big girl!” She tickled Elizabeth’s belly. Joan thought she saw tears glinting in her eyes. “I know you can do it.”

“Okay, mama,” Elizabeth said.

“That’s my girl.” Anne kissed the top of her head. She glanced up at Joan and squeezed her hand, then pushed them into the wardrobe and shut the door.

“Start counting!” Anne called from outside.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10…_

Joan braced herself against the back wall and edged upwards a little, but her limbs were tangled in the silk and bejeweled dresses around her and she couldn’t move without rustling the clothes around her. She rested her chin on top of Elizabeth’s head, breathing in the scent of the toddler’s hair oils and the lingering smell of her mother.

What was going on?

Through the small crack between the wardrobe doors, Joan could see Anne wipe her eyes, smooth out her iconic green dress, and sit down at the edge of her bed. She picked up the lamb and began to peer at it as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. A moment later, Henry and a flurry of guards burst inside.

_11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20…._

Joan jolted a little and felt Elizabeth’s head turn upwards to blink up at her curiously. Through the crack, she can see Anne look up with a mock-startled expression (she knew they were coming, Joan realized) as the guards pointed their spears at her. She tilted her head in confusion.

“Whatever is going on?” She asked.

“Anne Boleyn,” Henry snarled lowly. “You are under arrest.”

 _21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30…_.

It felt like the entire world was flipped upside down. Like someone had picked up the castle, turned it over, and shook really hard until all the pieces came falling out. And it felt like the walls were closing in on Joan, suffocating her, trapping her.

“What for?” Anne asked. She doesn’t look shocked at all.

“You know what.” Henry said. “Witchcraft, adultery, conspiracy against the court…” His lips twisted up in a wicked smile. “Incest.”

_31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40…._

“You lying bastard!” Anne suddenly exploded, leaping to her feet. Up until that charge, her face had been amused at the list of ‘things she had done’, but now she just looked furious. She gripped the wooden sheep so hard it was a wonder that the body didn’t splinter.

“I do not lie.” Henry said coolly. “So, which was it? Your little brother? Or your sister?”

“I have never-!!” Anne had to stop herself to breathe before her nerves took control. Her face was beet red with rage, a terrible contrast to the emerald green dress she was wearing. “I have never done anything with my siblings, you sniveling coward.”

_41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50…._

The guards shifted anxiously. None of them looked like they believed the incest claim, but they were too afraid to face Henry’s wrath if they stood down. When Anne glanced at them, she seemed to see that and her eyes grew slightly sympathetic. However, they turned right back into smoldering coals when she looked at her husband again.

“Do not spread lies about me, Henry.” She warned scathingly. There was a deep, rumbling noise that curled around her words, making her seem like a cougar that was about to pounce.

“What do you have there?” One of the guards suddenly asked. Was he trying to relieve some tension?

_51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60…._

“Oh,” Anne’s anger is sniffed out for a moment. She held up the wooden sheep, smiling softly. “It’s a carving. My wonderful little maid, Joan, made it. Do you know her? She’s a sweet girl. Would you like to hold it?”

“No,” Henry answered for the guards. “You’ve enchanted it, haven’t you?”

“Of course not.” Anne rolled her eyes. “Listen to yourself, Henry. You sound mad.” Her slight smirk is then wiped off her mouth as she’s struck across the face.

_61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70…._

It took everything in Joan to not cry out or yelp or leap out of the wardrobe as she watched Anne fall to the floor.

The queen never fell.

“You do not speak to me like that, woman!” Henry roared. “I am your KING!”

Anne raised her head, her cheek welling up in a horrible shade of purple and red, and said, “You’re no king. You’re a DEVIL!”

_71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80…._

Henry’s boulder-sized fist smashed into the side of Anne’s face, sending her right back to the floor. He hit her and slapped her and beat her until sweat was running down his reddened face and a small puddle of blood was pooling around Anne’s head. All the while, the guards and the two stowaways in the wardrobe watched in horror.

Joan held Elizabeth closer, tucking her head underneath her chin, and shook all over. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she watched her queen get beaten senselessly.

It was awful. It was so horrible. She wanted to jump out of the wardrobe and save Anne, protect her from the blows she was getting, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even look away. But when she looked closer, she realized that Anne was clutching her lamb carving tightly in her hand.

 _81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90._ …

“Sir! That’s enough!” One of the guards yelled. He looked queasy at the violence set before him, despite being trained to fight and kill.

Henry stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow with one of his blood soaked hands. A smear of his wife’s blood is left on his forehead.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, witch?” He hissed.

Anne pushed herself up with her arms, took a few strained, heavy breaths, and then staggered up to her feet. She almost immediately fell back down, but managed to steady herself and look up at the king. Her face was swollen, dripping blood, and dyed in several shades of black, blue, and red. But even still, she managed to smirk.

“But of course,” She rasped and then spit some of her blood into Henry’s face.

_91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99…._

Henry lifted a hand, slowly wiped the blood away, and snarled, “Seize her.”

_100._

In an instant, the queen of England is gone in a whirlwind of spears and growling and soft apologies. She leaves the sheep carving behind, drowning in her pool of blood. Somewhere down the hallway, Maggie could be heard screaming.

Joan doesn’t move. Even when silence fell over the hallway, she didn’t move. She just remained perfectly still, frozen in horror, unable to breathe, while Elizabeth squirmed restlessly in her arms.

“Mama?” The toddler said softly.

Joan _sobbed_.

She threw her head back and began to cry even harder. Tears were now rapidly pouring down her cheeks. Her throat was clogged with anguish and panic and trauma- she couldn’t breathe. She was spiraling like she had when John went missing.

“Mama?” Elizabeth said again. She wiggled furiously and managed to get out of Joan’s arms. Before she could be stopped, she tumbled out of the wardrobe and looked around the room.

“E-Elizabeth,” Joan crawled after her. She couldn’t stand. The scene she had witnessed kept replaying behind her eyes over and over and over again, crushing her. “E-Elizabeth, I’m s-so s-s-sorry…!”

But Elizabeth didn’t understand.

“Ready or not, mama!” She cried gleefully, romping obliviously through the pool of her mother’s blood. “Here I come!”

Joan crumpled to her side, curled into a tight ball, and began to wail. Because something deep down inside of her told her that Anne was never going to be found.

\------

It felt sort of inappropriate how gorgeous and sunny it was outside, an early morning full of whistling birdsong and humming bumblebees among crimson and gold roses.

Thousands of bodies pressed against each other in the yard, fidgeting, quivering, waiting to see the execution that was announced to them. Some didn’t believe it- that there was no possible way the king was really going to send his wife to her death, while others were already praying for the queen’s smooth transition into heaven. But then the executioner took to the scaffold and they all knew that this was going to happen. That this was real, whether they liked it or not.

There are many rumors regarding the dungeon tower. Some say there are ghosts of the people that had been tortured to death inside. Others talk about how the place breaks down a person’s mental stability. Even the guards go mad, they say. After just two weeks of being there, the queen and her ladies start to think they may have a point, whoever they are. Everything about the tiny, grimy cell made them feel miserable.

And yet, Anne emerged from her prison as poised and regal as always.

Joan didn’t walk beside her mistress. She was near the back of the pack, with a few other maids of waiting who were to accompany Anne up on the scaffolding. The girl to her left was already crying- she had been since yesterday. The one to her right was very pale and muttering to herself with her hands clasped together tightly. There was supposed to be another, but she had ran away screaming, unable to go out and watch. Nobody went after her.

Anne was reading a small prayer book as she walked down to her stage. It was similar to the ones she had given all her maids and ladies in waiting, but this one had a beautiful gold covering wrapped all the way around it that glittered in the sunshine. Occasionally, she would glance over her shoulder and Joan so desperately wanted to meet her eyes, but the gaze would always slide right past her. Who was she looking for?

Joan watched as she tucked the prayer book away and began to hand out coins to the poorer people in the crowd. Her heart ached. Even in her final hour, Anne continued to be absolutely lovely.

They soon reached the scaffolding. It was swaddled in expensive black velvet and so built high that all who were present could see the spectacle. Thick clouds of straw were strewn across the ebony-swathed floor to soak up the blood.

Blood. There would be blood.

Anne paused for a moment and then pressed the golden prayer book into Maggie’s hands. She gave her friend a warm smile, then turned away. Joan swore the strangled whine Maggie made could be heard throughout the entire plaza.

The swordsman knelt before the queen, begging for her forgiveness. Joan stared at him as he whispered with her mistress, so desperately wanting to yell, _“Don’t do it! If you want to be forgiven, then don’t do it! Don’t take her away!”_

But he stood again, now white-knuckling a pouch of coins the queen had passed to him as payment for her own decapitation. He tucked it away. Joan wanted to jam every piece of gold he was given down his throat.

Anne soon began to speak. Her voice was as dignified and confident as it always ways, strong and booming across the crowd of thousands of onlookers. She asked to be pardoned of her sins, praised the king as a fair and gentle man, and requested that the audience prayed for her. Her words never stammered, never quivered- she spoke clearly and smoothly, despite the blunted, gleaming axe mere feet away from her.

Everyone had believed the queen could do anything. Win any battle, settle any argument, simply by appearing and having the innate ability to fix everything. The queen who was never shaken, who never faltered. Maybe sometimes she’d believed it, too. And, as she stood upon that scaffolding announcing her final words to the crowd, that theory was proven.

But nobody had ever told Joan just how much the tears from that fact would hurt, and now as they fell from her eyes in a stream of her anguish and heartache, she could not imagine anything being worse than this. The feeling wracked itself up and down her body. The amount of frustration to have the one thing that was good in your life right in front of you, just an inch or centimeter from a safe grasp, but know that a greater power was keeping it withheld.

It makes Joan detest the court that she had thought saved her from a life of crime and starvation, the sting from her queen’s unjust beheading aiding her wounds to a fiery point. She wanted to blame someone, there must be a way to help the pain, but she knew that her wanting to blame someone for this is exactly the same thing as the people wanting to blame her queen for what happened. It was frustrating that now she knew what it felt like and it would make her a hypocrite to feel so.

There is no possible way to describe in words what it is like to literally watch as someone you looked up to is murdered and know you have absolutely nothing you can do about it. You can try, so Joan does in hopes of averting her mind to something- anything, but after a few moments of coming up blank, she released a quiet sob and wrung her hands together in her dress, leaning against the maid beside her for support. The girl does not mind, in fact she tipped her head and cried into Joan’s hair. Joan doesn’t even know her name.

It’s not right and it’s not fair. In her mind all she can do is imagine the things that went wrong and every little thing she could have done differently to have caused a better outcome of events. All the small trivial matters that she should have done differently, but knowing there is nothing she can do about the past reminded her of the simple fact that she could not have saved Anne even if she had tried and it only made the knots in her chest tighten.

Awareness returned slowly. Joan sniffled through the haze of oncoming tears and saw Anne disrobing on her own. Maggie stood by petrified, too scared and shaking too much to help. Anne knew this, and so she gave her dear friend a warm smile to let her know that it was alright. Maggie nearly wailed.

The ermine-trimmed cloak, necklace, hood, and grey damask gown Anne had been clad in were discarded in a smooth movement. Beneath it, she wore a scarlet kirtle.

Scarlet, the color of martyrs, Joan would later learn.

Scarlet, the color of the queen’s blood, Joan already knew.

Anne tucked her luscious brown hair into a white cap. Joan hoped for a few strands to fall out, to buy her some more time, but she bunched it all away in the headdress, leaving her pale neck bare to the world.

And then, she knelt.

Joan’s insides felt hot, like they were being burnt with coal. She felt the maid at her side reach up weakly and grip onto her arm with both hands. Her nails are digging into the flesh beneath her sleeves, but the pain brought clarity. Awareness that she didn’t really want.

She wished John was there. Not to take the place of the queen’s neck that would soon be beneath a bloodied blade, but so she could have someone to have for support because she felt so weak right now, so damn weak. Weaker and more vulnerable than she had when he disappeared, which had been impossible for her to get over at that time.

But that’s exactly why he wasn’t there. And Joan cursed him for hiding away, wherever he was, and sitting by like a coward as his sister is tortured with the sight of an unjust murder, of an overwhelming anguish and trauma that would infect her mind and soul for the rest of her life.

On the floor before her, knelt on a red cushioned pillow that couldn’t possibly soften the blow they were all about to get, Anne began to pray. Joan couldn’t tell what she was saying- she couldn’t tell if she was whispering too softly to be heard or talking out loud and Joan’s senses were just buzzing too much to understand her. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to hear her mistress’ final words at all.

And then, she heard them. Because, one by one, the thousands of the people in the crowd got on their knees in the grass and prayed with their queen.

Joan watched in morbid awe at the sight set before her. Tears slipped out and ran freely down her face.

They didn’t want Anne to die. These people wanted Anne to live. They wanted her to be forgiven.

But then the executioner took the beheading axe in his hands and stepped towards the queen.

Joan flinched away. The girl hanging onto her flinched, too, then held tighter to her arm.

“Bring me my sword!”

Those words echoed in Joan’s head. For a moment, she didn’t even know if they were real, if they had truly been spoken, but then she saw the executioner sweep up a sword hidden beneath the straw.

Anne was still to die, but at least it would be at the mercy of a stronger blade.

Joan felt a tickle against her palm; an older lady in waiting she’s never spoken to before has grabbed her hands. She stared up at the woman, who glanced back down at her with a somber expression. This one wasn’t crying, but she was very pale.

There was a shift at her side; two other ladies in waiting have covered the eyes of the maids that had come up with Joan. Joan’s eyes are shielded, too, by the woman holding her hand, but she grabbed her fingers and peeked out just in time to see the sword flash in the sun and come down on her mistress’ neck.

Cannons atop the Tower walls boomed to announce the death of the queen of England, but not even they were as loud as the scream Maggie made.

The sound was like nothing Joan had ever heard before. It was an anguished, terrible noise that was so intense and powerful that Maggie blew her voice out within an instant, and even then she kept screaming.

She lunged forward, but the hands of the executioner and semi-calmer ladies in waiting alike grapple her arms, holding her back. She was severely outnumbered, but she fought like a cornered tiger, kicking and punching and scratching and spitting until she wiggled free and collapsed forward as if all her bones had melted. She scampered through the wet straw, which was getting wetter and darker with blood by the second, and grabbed Anne’s rolling head.

Joan wished she had kept her eyes covered.

Maggie was still screaming that terrible, strangled scream, rocking back and forth on the bloody stage, holding her dear friend’s head close to her chest. Someone to Joan’s left tipped to the side and vomited. Another lady in waiting had fainted before the sword even met Anne’s neck and her friend was hunched over her fallen body, weeping, “It’s over, Bea! It’s over! The queen is dead!” The woman holding Joan’s hand just stared at the pandemonium on the scaffolding in pity, shaking her head, a single tear rolling down her cheek. She didn’t let go of Joan’s hand.

Joan never did get her name.

———

Maggie had carried Anne’s head back to the castle. It had taken four guards to pry it away from her grasp when it was time for the funeral.

Joan was deemed “well enough” by someone with short hair and cruel, wolf-like eyes, so she helped carry the queen’s body. She still remembers the feeling of some of Anne’s blood sliding down her face.

———

Joan spoke no words at Anne’s funeral. She stood near the back, watching as others said their goodbyes. Maggie clung to the casket the longest, making miserable noises and weeping onto the corpse of her dear friend. She kept saying “I’m sorry” over and over again and muttered things in a different language that Joan couldn’t understand. She had to be guided away by another lady in waiting, who rubbed her back and whispered comforting things, but they were unheard in Maggie’s despair-deaf ears.

Before the casket was put in the ground, Joan caught a final glimpse of the queen and the head that had been crudely sewn back onto her neck.

———

“I’m leaving.”

Joan trembled as Maggie told her this. The older woman trembled, too, with permanent anguish that has rooted itself inside of her and with outrage. Joan knew what she was so angry about. They all had heard about how Henry went to celebrate with Jane Seymour after the cannon fires announcing his wife’s death.

“She’s going to have his baby.” Maggie hissed bitterly. “I know she is. And I can’t stay. Not when she—” She shut her eyes tightly for a moment and took several deep breaths that did little to calm her. “I can’t stay.”

“I understand.” Joan whispered. “But don’t you- don’t you want to get revenge?”

For a moment, Maggie almost looked amused. A tiny, ghost of a smile twitched on her lips.

“Silly girl.” She said. “Do you?”

Joan shrugged, looking away.

“She’ll get what’s coming to her.” Maggie said. Something flashed in her eyes- bloodlust? “God won’t let her sins go unpunished. She will pay for what she’s done.”

Joan nodded. She watched as Maggie’s hands slid to her belly, which was slightly swollen. A month prior, she remembered seeing Anne playfully caressing the woman’s stomach, cooing about how she was going to be the best godmother ever.

“I felt a kick!” The queen had exclaimed, peeking up, eyes glowing.

“You jellyfish,” Maggie had flicked her. “I’m not that far along yet.”

“No, I definitely felt something.” Anne had assured her. She gently cupped the small bump, leaning her head in close. “This little one is so excited to meet their god mama that they kick early! Isn’t that right, Maggie Jr.?”

“Maggie Jr.?” Maggie had echoed, giggling. “I am NOT naming my baby Maggie Jr. One of me is enough.”

“Not for me.” Anne had said, flashing her a grin before she went back to gazing at her belly. “Maggie ii. It’s perfect!”

“And what if it’s a boy?”

“Then you name him Hercules! Something strong and powerful!”

“Hercules? Really?”

“What? I read!”

The memory dissolved away, as did the laughter that had bubbled up from the final comment. Joan blinked a few times. In front of her, Maggie was rubbing slow, gentle circles against her stomach.

“If it’s a girl,” She whispered, “I’m going to name her Anne.”

Joan smiled weakly. “I’m sure Anne would be very proud. She’d like that a lot.”

Tears welled up in Maggie’s eyes, but she blinked them away.

“You think so?” She asked softly.

“Of course.” Joan answered.

Maggie nodded. “Thank you.” She glanced over her shoulder for a moment. “I have to go now. Goodbye, Joan. And be careful.”

With that, she was gone.

Joan never saw her again.

———

Being the maid of honor to the woman who stole the place of your former employer was sickening and horrifying and awful. When Jane had come to Joan with the offer, she had a sickly sweet smile on her lips, knowing full well that Joan wouldn’t have the courage to say no.

Perhaps that’s why she did it in the first place. Out of spite.

Joan didn’t know the other maids of honor at the wedding. They were all older than her and looked at her as if she were a worm on the end of a fishhook. They sneered at her lingering trauma of Anne’s execution and would mutter about her needing to “get over it” but never said it to her face.

After the ceremony, Joan stood among a crowd of people she didn’t know. Even when she managed to wiggle free into a clearer space, she still couldn’t see anyone she knew. Elizabeth wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Even Mary wasn’t around to mock her or try to swoon with an older man.

She was alone, Joan realized.

As she always would be.


End file.
